


hold you over my head

by ScrabbleSense



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Blackmail, Coming Out, Gen, Paul Prenter Being an Asshole, Trans Character, trans!roger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-12-30 05:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18309578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrabbleSense/pseuds/ScrabbleSense
Summary: He's never told anyone. Not even his friends know, and he sees them practically every day. No, it's too big a secret to trust them with; and the amount he trusts them is a testament to how deeply the secret is buried.He tries so hard...But when Paul accidentally finds out, what lengths will Roger go to to protect himself.





	1. Chapter 1

The summer before Uni, Regina decided it was time.

In the space between getting her own apartment and actually going to school, she had cut her hair, bought new clothes, thrown out the make-up her mother said she would someday use, strapped her chest up tight, and finally bought a mirror for her small apartment - only getting one when she finally felt comfortable.

 _Him_. He would say, breathily, knuckles white as they gripped the edge of the sink. _I’m him._

When the first day rolled around, new faces asked for his name, and he would tell them.

“Roger.” He would say. His chest yearned to get giddy at the thought that he was finally who he was meant to be, but he didn’t smile, and he didn’t stutter; that was his name, and it was nothing out of the ordinary – nothing worth questioning. “Roger Taylor.”

He reminded himself – although blatantly not religious – to thank whatever higher power there was that he didn’t get any questions; nothing incriminating, anyway.

But oh God, did they pick on him.        

_“Oi, Taylor, trim your eyelashes, mate! Look like a bloody Barbie!”_

_“Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got the_ widest _hips?”_

_“You don’t even have peach fuzz, Rog, oh my God!”_

But he liked to laugh along, because when he looked in the mirror or talked to his friends, he realized that he really _did_ just look like a boy with a girly face.

And it worked well – for a while.

That intense feeling of shock was all too familiar - but it didn't lessen the blow.

One minute, he was wrapping his chest tightly – so tightly he could barely breathe – with bandages, and the next, in waltzed his roommate.

A stunned, thick silence followed.

“Tony! Shit, wait, fuck, I can explain, I-”

“You’re… Jesus, you’re a- some kind of fucking freak!” He could still see Tony's face in his dreams to this day. “I knew it, I fucking- I knew it!”

“Wait, Tony, no, wait, I-!” He went to cover himself, moved to reach out to Tony, but-

The door was slammed shut before he could even get a word in.

He would never admit it, but if he looks back on those memories now, he vividly remembers himself crying like the _fucking little girl he is_ that night - pretending to be asleep when Tony came back to get his stuff.

The next day, there was a knock at the door (after a long talk with the administration - Tony had been kind enough to not say what made him have to switch rooms) and a fresh face, attached to a skinny body, whose arms were filled with boxes, stood smiling.

His hair was  _enormous_.

“Brian,” His voice was light, and there was laughter in his eyes as he stuck out a hand awkwardly under the mountain of cardboard.

Roger nodded blankly, shaking his hand as quickly as he could.

“Roger.” He said, opening the door.

They didn’t talk much that first night – well, not on Roger’s part anyway – but it wasn't long before Brian’s eye caught the used drumheads under the bed, and broke into a grin.

“You play?” His voice was giggly as he picked up the smallest, running his thumb over the soft top.

Roger shrugged.

“Last guy moved out because of it.” He hated the feeling that lying through his fucking teeth gave him - made him feel rotten and ugly - but Brian only chuckled.

"You should come check out my band some time - we could always use a stand-in drummer."

 

Roger knew it was heated today.

Brian was in John’s face too often, Freddie had smoked at least a pack already and it was only 10 AM, and Roger’s head hurt. The room was sticky, the floor was covered with crumpled paper, and everyone felt sick.

It was bad, he knew it, but he could’ve easily gotten through it if it wasn’t for… Well…

He'd told his bandmates that he had a stomach disorder.

Something easy to pronounce and quite common was found one day in the school’s library, and from that day on, he knew what to say.

It was good, he thought, a good cover-up.

Roughly the same place as his uterus, the same headache and cramps; even covered up his vomiting when the pain got bad.

What it _didn’t_ cover, however, was the fact that Roger still had trouble breathing thanks to his bandages, and no stomach disorder he knew of could cover that without worrying somebody.

He tried, of course, to play it off, but not even Freddie would let the show go on if he knew Roger wasn’t okay. They’d stopped gigs before to let Roger breathe for a moment, and once in a while, during recording, someone would hand him an inhaler with an apologetic smile, and Brian would glance over to make sure Roger used it.

Usually, he could handle it.

But it was days like this – when he was sitting for long amounts of time in serious pain accompanied not being able to breathe very well, while everyone around him screeched and screamed – that he just _couldn’t handle_.

“Right, so just cause you wrote the bloody thing means _you_ get the solo?!” Brian hissed, shoving Deaky in the chest slightly.

John only sneered. Roger hugged his abdomen in pain, but didn’t make a sound.

“Maybe if someone else was to write a song, I wouldn’t _have_ to have all the solos.” He countered, pushing Brian back with a little more force than Brian had pushed him with.

Brian’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, so now you’re being the bigger man by saying that we’re forcing you to take all the solos?”

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t-”

“No, no, please, go ahead.” Brian pulled the guitar off his middle and set it on the floor, sitting on a stool and looking at Deaky expectantly, putting his hands to his mouth like he was praying. Bile rose in Roger’s throat. “Might as well force you to do the whole song, since we’re so eager to give you all the attention.”

John took the bass off himself and set it to rest by an amp. “You’re acting like a child, Brian. Maybe if you stopped bitching about who gets what for thirty seconds you’d write a new song! A new song with as much guitar in it as you want!”

“Ladies, please!” Freddie snapped, looking at the two of them with daggers in his eyes. Roger winced, and bit his tongue as not to scream. “We can complain about who gets what, or we can play the bloody song, now-”

“We’d complain much less if someone didn’t keep shooting down ideas!” Brian was yelling now; standing and squaring his jaw.

“Listen to Freddie!” Paul’s voice rang through the studio like a knife, and he smirked from his spot up against the doorway.

There was a brief pause of everyone taking in the fact that _he_ would have the gall to say something like that.

“You’re not even in the band!” Shouted Brian. “You don’t get a say-”

Immediately, Freddie was riled up. Roger’s head was pounding.

“Don’t you _dare_ talk to him like that; he’s got better input than any of you have had in weeks.”

“You’re only defending him because he’s on your side!” John managed to shout back at Freddie.

“There are no sides, we’re a team!” Freddie countered.

“I’m allowed to have input!” Paul was also yelling now, standing upright and crossing his arms. “Freddie brought me to get some smart ideas in here- now I see why! You’re all horrible!”

“You don’t get input!” Shouted John, exasperatedly. “This is a band meeting!”

“You’re barely a band as it is, look at you!” Paul sneered.

Brian had to hold John back.

“Can we stop fighting for five minutes, please!” Freddie begged, yelling up at the ceiling exasperatedly.

“We wouldn’t _be_ fighting if you would just _listen_ -”

“Of course I listen! We’re a team-”

“A team where nobody gets to point out when someone else is taking all the solos?!” Brain sneered.

“I’m not _taking_ them, Brian, I wrote the damn song!”

Roger felt hot.

“You’re turning us into disco, Deaky! All bass solos isn’t Queen!” Brian snarled.

Freddie’s face was red at this point, and Roger’s head was spinning like a top.

“To hell with this, how about there’s _no_ song, _no_ band, and none of us have to ever see each other again – especially since this ‘ _team’_ is picking ‘ _sides’_!” Freddie spat, his face inches from Brian’s.

Roger couldn’t breathe-

“Who’s side are you on, then, Roger?!” Brian demanded, ignoring Freddie; and all heads swiveled to the drummer.

He tried to get up, but he could feel his throat tighten and his breathing restrict, and suddenly his vision was spinning and his head hurt-

“I- I r- really can’t r- right now- now-”

“No, if you’re so ready to not have a damn thing to say we might as well hear how excited you are to not get a solo anywhere on this album!”

Roger tried – he really did – to get up from his seat, but his chest was so tight and his body hurt so, so bad; he felt himself fall before his brain registered what was happening, and he reached out weakly, only to have his hand slam into the hi-hat and fill the studio with the sound of brass hitting brass.

“Roger!” Someone yelled his name - they sounded so distant - but then his ears were ringing, and his eyes welled with tears of pain and God, his head hurt so bad-

“Roger, what’s wrong?! Can you hear us?! Are you okay?!” It was Freddie that went to touch him, but before he could put a hand on Rogers burning skin, Roger was up on shaky feet, his face worryingly pale.

“Think I- I’m gonna’ be si- sick.”

He practically bolted towards the bathroom, stumbling over his feet and clutching walls as he left.

The three remaining band members exchanged glances as the hot room cooled, and, after a slight sigh of shame, they all moved to follow.

Paul, however, was one step ahead.

“I’ll go check on him.” He said quickly, putting his hands up to stop the other men from leaving. “I believe apologies are in order for you three.”

And with that, Paul left the three cooling musicians and followed Roger to his dressing room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R. Meddows Taylor through the years.

She’s 15 when she realizes something’s wrong.

She doesn’t like her hair, God it’s so long, and she _hates_ her eyes.

Thomas says they’re blue as the sky, and that she looks like a doll, but that only makes her feel worse.

She takes a short breath in and nods, but Thomas only laughs and brushes it off; throwing an arm over her shoulder and smiling as she gives an uncomfortable laugh.

“You’re so pretty.” He smiles, kissing her gently on the cheek. “I love you so much.”

Her stomach churns, but she gives a small smile, and jumps when his hand falls to pinch at her ass.

His friends love looking at her, and he lets them. Not in a bad way, not in a predatory way, just enough to show her that she‘s incredibly pretty, and incredibly wanted, and that makes her sick.

Around school, she’s ‘ _Thomas’ girl_ ’.

At home, it’s ‘ _Princess’_.

At work, it’s ‘ _Miss or Madam_ ’.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” She asked him once. Her room was dimly lit with orange light, and she had been sitting on the edge of her squeaky bed staring out the window at the rain for quite some time.

It was warm in the room, but shivers went down her spine when he looked up from his book and met her gaze with furrowed eyebrows. The rocking chair that he was sitting across from her in stilled, and her stare fell to the floor as she pulled the blanket up higher around her.

His face scrunched up in confusion.

“O- Of course, love! I think you’re absolutely gorgeous!” He closed his book and set it on the chair, and stood to sit beside her on the bed, holding her small hands in his as she rested her head on his shoulder gently. The smell of pressed linen and cologne engulfed her. “What’s going on? Did someone say something?”

His shirt was warm and soft against her cheek. She felt too tired to filter the things she wanted to say.

He made an effort to move his head to try to look into her eyes, but she kept her glassy gaze on the floor.

“No, it’s… It’s not that, Tom.” She bit her lip as he guided her chin up to see him. “It’s just… Do you think I’m _too_ pretty to change?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, paused, and furrowed his eyebrows.

“What do you mean?”

She thought for a moment, then stood to stand to look out the window.

“It’s almost like…” She thought quietly about what she wanted to say, chewing on her nails as she did. “I want to change.”

Thomas, sensing there was a conversation to be had, pulled his legs onto the bed crisscross and waited for her to say more. She took a watery breath and held herself tightly, willing the tears glazing her vision to leave.

“I _need_ to change,” She gave a stubborn huff. “But it’s… It’s not something I _should_ do. No-one would take me _seriously_ , and I’d… Feel like a joke – I want to do it so bad and I’ve been thinking about it forever, but; It’s just so _wrong_ \- no-one would see me as anything but a _freak_ , and I- I don’t think even my parents would understand – it’s just so-”

Her voice cracked, and Thomas was on his feet.

The tears started falling then, but he took her in his arms before she started sobbing. Regina sniffled into his shirt willingly, wrapping her arms tight around his strong body.

He smelled like cinnamon and vanilla.

They rocked quietly for some time. Thomas sighed.

“Is it… Something illegal? You wanna go do drugs? Get a tattoo? Shave your head?”

“Shaving your head’s not illegal,” She giggled through her tears at that, even if she was too blubbery and too far into his shirt to be heard properly. “I’m too pretty to shave my head.”

“You certainly are.”

She didn’t respond, and a soft silence ensued.

“I want change.”

He rocked her gently and chuckled. “When you get to Uni, darling, you’ll have a whole new canvas. Paint it how you want.”

She nodded quietly, and Thomas pressed a warm kiss to her hair as the rain tapped against the roof gently.

 

When she learns to play drums, they say she’s a ‘tomboy’. It feels better, she thinks. Better than ‘ _Princess’_ and ‘ _Baby-doll_ ’ and ‘ _Cupcake’_.

Better than Regina, they call her Reg. She wore pants and put on baggy shirts to hide her breasts, and didn’t show off her figure.

And slowly – slowly – people start to confuse themselves.

Around school, she’s ‘ _Is that Reg? She looks like a boy_!’

At home, it’s ‘ _Just a phase! You’ll like all that makeup I bought you in a year or two_ ’

At work, it’s ‘ _Excuse me, Sir- Oh! I’m sorry, Miss_!’

“You look different.”

They hadn’t seen each-other in over three weeks, she realized.

He sat on the bench outside her Chem class, hunched over, eyes pale as he watched her.

His voice stopped the laughter that rang through her group of – male, Thomas noticed – friends. Their heads turned to him, faces locked in confusion, but Reg’s heart fell as she realized how tired he looked.

Their eyes met, and Reg pursed her lips. She could feel her friends’ stares on her.

“You all go.” She said to the boys, quietly casting a glance at Thomas. “I’ll catch up.”

“See ya’, Reg.” The tallest – William, Thomas thought – shrugged, nodding to Thomas as he walked off with everyone.

It was silent as they waited for the boys to be out of earshot, but Reg refused to look Thomas in the eye.

He stood slowly, once the boys were gone, and rubbed his thighs slightly, tapping his hands nervously on hips. His lips pursed as he dug his hands into his pockets, sighing.

Her face burned as he moved closer to her.

Silence ensued for a moment, and then Thomas sighed.

“So…” He bit his lip, staring at the ground. “It’s Reg, now, is it?”

She nodded quietly, shuffling her feet.

“Yep.”

He paused and cleared his throat awkwardly. “I came by yesterday? Your mum said you were busy, but… I heard you guys practicing.”

She looked up at him. “Yeah?”

He chuckled, smiling to himself slightly. “You’re doing amazing things, Reg.”

She smiled at that, and the tension cracked slightly.

“You think?”

“With a drummer like you?!” Thomas beamed. “There’s nowhere in the world you can’t go.”

She laughed at that, letting her foot swing slightly as if lost in flirt. She motioned her head slightly towards the empty hallway in front of them, indicating they should walk, and he smiled.

“We should get dinner tonight. You and me.” She said, moving to lean on him slightly as he slipped an arm around her waist, guiding them slowly towards the courtyard.

“Really? You wanna?”

She furrowed her brows. “Why would I not?”

“Oh! Well, I mean… I just… Wasn’t sure if you were… If _we_ were… Are we still…” He pointed between the two of them, confusion on his face. “Us?”

Reg giggled. “Yeah, Thom. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. I’ll get dinner after with you after the show- I promise.”

Thomas smiled, pressing a warm kiss to her hair.

“That’s my girl.”

 

He came to every show that week, and they had dinner after none of them.

He was there when she apologized and rushed to help load equipment into the truck, there when she broke her sticks, there when the van broke down – but like hell were they going to miss this gig – there to help carry instruments about four miles to the pub they were playing, there when the band got their name, and there when Reggie came off stage Friday night.

That night had gone bad, she’d broken a head in the middle of their set – thanks to those shitty cheap drums – and they’d had to stop for a good five minutes to fix everything.

It was only after, with the music blasting and the lights too bright, that Thomas suggested they get going.

It was cold as they walked home; the snow was cleared off the sidewalk, but the pavement was still wet, and her nose was buried deep in a scarf.

“-And then last week, while we were rehearsing – God it was hilarious – Benji comes out with the drum _on his head_ , and-”

“Can we talk, Reg?” He asked suddenly, stopping under an orange streetlamp and staring at her blankly. Roger only furrowed her brow, shrugging.

“Do we have to do it while standing here?” She asked, hopping from foot to foot. “It’s freezing. We can just get to my house and then-”

“No.” His voice was stronger than he thought it would be, but this was important, and he needed to say it. “I… I don’t know what’s happening, Reg.”

He put a hand to his forehead and suddenly looked very distraught.

Reg tilted her head, shaking it slightly. “What’re you on about-”

“I heard him, Reg.” He said, voice watery. “It was Regina two months ago. Now it’s Roger?”

Her eyes widened as her mind reeled, her mouth agape and her face pale. She could feel bile rising in her throat.

“You broke the skin, and he said ‘ _What’s happened, Roger?’_. You came back, ‘ _Roger’s back!_ ’.”

“W- What?” Her mouth felt dry as she took as step back. “No, y- you just- you just heard him wrong-”

“No I didn’t.” He shook his head, a mix of disappointment and sadness clouding his eyes. “This is the change, isn’t it?”

He sighed knowingly.

Roger stayed quiet.

“Isn’t it?!”

Her voice was barely audible.

She spoke with scrunched eyes, trying not to cry.

“Yes.”

Thomas pursed his lips, and nodded, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he stared down at his shuffling feet.

He took in a heavy breath, and when he looked up at her, his eyes were glossy.

She swallowed thickly, and squared her jaw.

“We’re going to different colleges soon.” She said softly. “It wasn’t going to work anyway. Say whatever you want- That I’m a freak, that you hate me- Whatever. I won’t have to see you again.”

He nodded.

“Can I hug you?”

She was quiet in shock for a moment, but then the waterworks started, and hot tears ran down her cheeks as she wrapped her arms around his torso.

“You’re going to do amazing things, Regina.” He chuckles. “ _Roger_.”

She shuddered sadly in his grip, and sniffled.

“Do you hate me?” She sniffled into his shirt, the smell of pressed linen and cologne engulfing her.

He chuckled slightly, and brushed the hair out of Rog’s face.

“Of course I don’t, silly.” He pressed a kiss to her hair, and she sniffled again.

She looked up at him through watery lashes, her brows furrowed, and held him tighter.

“Why not?”

He thought for a moment, then smiled.

“You’re gonna be famous one day, Rog.” He flicked the tip of her nose with his finger. “I wouldn’t want a famous drummer on my bad side.”

She chuckled through her tears, hiding herself back into his shirt.

They swayed for a while – Roger’s pretty sure she can hear him humming Hey Jude – and just stayed together, arms around each other’s’ waists’, his chin on her head.

“Is this it?” She asked eventually.

Thomas sniffed, but smiled. “Oh, you’ll see me around – we’ve still got a while ‘til Uni.”

She chuckled as he shrugged.

Their lips connected one last time, and she smiled under it.

As soon as it broke and their gazes’ met, she felt somehow freer and warmer than she had in months.

He smiled.

“I’m very glad you’ve found yourself,” He paused. “Roger.”

 

They don’t talk after they leave school.

Roger – _he_ – introduces – _himself_ – to – _his_ – roommate.

He doesn’t tell him about what went down. He doesn’t give him the slightest clue.

He binds his chest loosely, makes his hair more grungey than feminine – keeps it long – and puts drumming on the backburner for a while.

He remembers the hair most he thinks.

His hair is  _enormous_.

“Brian,” He breathes, maneuvering his arms to hold the boxes on his hip so he can hold out his hand.

Roger only nodded blankly.

“Roger.” He greeted, shaking his hand and opening the door more.

Roger doesn’t say much as Brian rambles, and it’s not long before Brian’s eye catches the used drumheads under the bed.

“You play?” He asks, picking up the smallest and running his thumb over the soft top.

Roger shrugs.

“Last guy moved out because of it.” He’s lying through his fucking teeth, and it makes him feel rotten, but Brian only chuckles.

“You any good?” He asked, Frisbee-throwing it to Roger, who catches it.

“I suppose.” He shrugged. “Maybe you’ll have to find out.”

 

Through Brian, he met Freddie.

“This is Roger,” Bri pulled Roger over by the shoulders, and Roger smiled at the long-haired man. “He’s our drummer.”

Roger beams.

Through Freddie, he met Deaky.

“This is Roger.” Freddie put an elegant hand under Rogers chin. “He’s the _man_ of the group.”

With fame came the rumor of Roger and the ladies, Roger and his tendencies, Roger and his locked dressing room.

What didn’t come with it, though, was a rumor.

No-one would ever know.

As long as he kept it safe.

And, looking at the three idiots in front of him on stage, he figured this was about as safe as he’d ever felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm dyslexic so i use text-to-speech to hear over what i write once it's done but the program i use pronounces Regina (Ra-geen-a) like fucking Regina (ra-jine-uh), Saskatchewan and Rog like rogue so uhhhh hate that i thought i was talking about Canada when i heard it - took me twenty damn minutes to figure out they're spelled the same way fucking hell


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger gets sick, and someone comes to check on him.

He didn’t even have time to lock the door to the bathroom before he was on his knees, hugging the toilet, and losing his lunch into the porcelain bowl.

His throat burned and his body ached with the force of throwing up the contents of his stomach – the smell of toilet water not helping calm his stomach.

He could feel his eyes water under the pressure, and his head pounded.

He could feel the edge of the toilet seat dig into his chest, but between the pain of that and the pain of vomiting, his brain only had time to work out what would end first.

Somehow – in the haze of his face in a toilet bowl, with his skin burning and his throat getting grated up like cheese – he got his shirt off, and threw it across the bathroom and into the sink.

The bruises around where his pecs should’ve been were like a watercolor painting.

The bandages wrapping his middle had red, angry lines around the edges – a rub-rash more likely than not – and when he finally – _finally_ – caught a break between bouts of throwing up, his brain caught up.

He was alone now, he finally realized.

Alone and nose-deep in the commode.

He didn’t want to be alone.

He wanted…

He thought for a moment, a hand on his stomach as the pauses between rounds of throwing up got longer.

He sobbed through his heaves, tears breaking through and falling down his cheeks.

 _He wanted Brian_.

Brian was so good at this stuff, was used to holding his hair back and rubbing his back and cooing softly. He gave him hugs afterwards and kissed his hair softly, got him water and made him brush his teeth.

After the first few times that Roger had sobbed and begged him not to leave after throwing up, Brian had simply started inviting him into his hotel room to share the bed without him having to ask.

Unconventional, Roger had to admit, but absolutely _yearned_ for at moments like this.

Brain knew how to help him calm down.

Brian would tell him to rationalize.

He counted what he could feel.

 _The ache and chafe of his breasts, not being able to breathe, his scratched throat, his head pulsing, his breathing not regulating, the cramp of his belly, his eyes watering, his chest heaving, and his skin burning_.

The last thought hit something mildly grounding – the feeling of the cold porcelain against his sweaty skin.

_Rationalize. Ground yourself._

First things first, stop vomiting.

Take the pressure off.

Slowly – _slowly_ – he let his fingers ghost over the bandages.

They’d gone from tan to brown at this point from rubbing against his shirt, and as soon as his fingers touched the surface, he winced.

His stomach seemed to finally want to stop giving up its contents, and he resigned himself to slump against the wall – the paint cold on his sweaty skin.

He felt his eyes flutter closed as he let his head fall back to rest against the wall.

Between dry-heaving and panting, he took a moment to try and catch his breath.

 _Not going to work_ , his brain whispered; _you need to breathe, Roger, **breathe**!_

“Can’t…” He panted to no-one, his voice breathy and quiet. “Hurts…”

 _They need to come off!_ The voice yelled. _Now!_

He didn’t like that the voice sounded exactly like Deaky’s.

He grit his teeth and sucked in as much air as he could without hurting himself, screwing his eyes shut.

“3…” He gave a shaky breath. “2…” He untucked the end of the bandages and held it firmly in his grip, screwing his eyes shut. “1…”

He let go, letting the bandages loosen, and gave a heavy sigh of relief.

The sigh of relief was very quickly followed by a shout of pain.

The feeling of his ribs creaking back into place was not one of comfort, and slightly knocked the wind out of him as he shuffled in place, rolling his middle slightly to try and get everything back in position.

A groan left his lips, and his breathing hitched as his eyes screwed shut. He slumped back against the wall, letting his arms fall limp to his sides.

“This is fucking _murder_ …” His breathing kept hitching as he was timid to breathe normally, letting his body do what it wanted as he ran a hand over his face.

It took a moment for the intense ache to turn into more of a tolerable pain, but he was in no position to get up.

A shaky hand reached up to run gentle fingers from his neck to his breasts, ghosting over the burning rash and the innumerable bruises.

He gave a sigh – a heavy one this time, using more lung space than before – and sat for a moment.

Next, his throat.

He was quick to crawl over to flush the toilet, his legs too wobbly to stand, and wiped his mouth with toilet paper.

He kneeled at the sink to wash his mouth out and brush his teeth.

A pain med for the headache went down rough, but he didn’t care.

A new cramp formed in his belly, though, and, as disgusting as he felt to admit it, a warm feeling spread.

He looked down to his jeans, exasperatedly.

A red stain formed near the crotch of his jeans.

He let his head fall back as he closed his eyes in silent thanks.

Roger wasn’t religious by any means, but a silent prayer went up to the heavens for him getting out of that room when he did. Shooting a quick ‘thank you’ to the universe was something Deaky taught him; _‘You can always thank coincidence’_ , he’d say.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and he immediately felt 100 times better.

Brian had come to check on him.

 _Brian_ was here and _Brian_ would get him some water and _Brian_ would help him change his clothes and _Brian_ wouldn’t ask any questions-

“Just a sec, Bri, I’ve got to-”

His hand was only just grabbing the shirt off the towel rack when the door swung open.

A yell echoed through the small bathroom, and it takes him a minute to realize it’s him yelling.

It’s _not_ Brian that’s come to check on him – not even _close_ , he notes, as the first thing he looks for is the hair, and this figure has as far from the curly mop that Brian has as you can get.

The door slams closed just as quickly as it had opened.

He threw himself against the door, twisting the lock as fast as he can.

It takes Roger a moment of hyperventilating to figure out what happened.

His chest had been _exposed_ , he realized.

The bandages were still on the floor by the toilet, his shirt was balled in his hands, and his breasts – his _womanly_ _chest_ , his _boobs_ – were just…

 _Out_.

His breathing picked up rapidly as tears threatened to fall.

_Someone had seen, someone had seen, someone had seen, someone **knows** , someone had-_

He pulled the balled-up shirt over his head with a teary stare, immediately feeling sick again as his heart rattled against his ribs.

The stained jeans were thrown in the trash next to the loo, a pair of spare shorts that someone had left exchanged.

He hadn’t had time to get a good look at who was out there.

It wasn’t Brian – that was for sure.

He hoped – he prayed, again, although not religious, and hoped that would work; hoped someone would hear him up there – that it was Deaks, or Freddie, or hell even _Miami_ would understand if he just…

He took a deep breath, and before he could even think, he stepped out into the dressing room connected to the bathroom.

His heart sunk.

“You’re just _full_ of secrets, aren’t you, Taylor?”

Roger wanted to run and hide back in the bathroom; wanted a hole to open in the floor that would swallow him forever.

He swallowed hard, gritting his teeth.

He tried and failed to look less terrified than he was on the inside.

“Paul.” He greeted shakily, hot tears falling down his cheeks against his will. “What did you see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowie boy i sure do love angst happy easter


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger wishes he'd taken the day off.

His stomach lurched again when his eyes met Paul’s.

 

He didn’t look upset, he didn’t look the way Roger thought someone would. He’d imagined this situation a million times; never with Prenter, but still.

 

Paul’s eyes were unreadable, his face stony and calculating, gaze dancing from Roger’s eyes to the floor from where he was sitting on the edge of the desk across the small room.

 

Roger hated how quiet the other man was, not a single wisp of emotion on his face, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Roger’s hands shook in tight fists at his side, and tears burned at his vision - he was not going to  _ fucking  _ cry, _ there was a way around this, he knew there was. _

 

The tears fell anyway.

 

He didn’t  _ want  _ to be crying,  _ god he must look so pathetic _ , he thought. He wiped his hot tears away with a shaky hand as he swallowed thickly, but the shock that it wasn’t Brian – not only was it  _ not _ Brian, but it was the  _ only _ person in the studio he didn’t want it to be - was enough to make the tears flow again.

 

His stomach felt like lead as he took a shaky breath.

 

“Paul…” He repeated through gritted teeth, his voice still hoarse from throwing up. “Tell me what you saw.”

 

A shadow of mock disappointment crossed Prenter’s face, and then he stood, reclaiming the good 5” he had on Roger. Roger felt violently ill - _ had he not just lost his lunch he’d probably have to vomit at how scared he was, _ he figured.

 

Then, the man took a few strides forward, leaving only a few feet of room between them, and tutted.

 

Paul  _ tutted _ . He tutted, frowning as you would to a small child who scraped their knee. He tutted and pouted like you would at an injured animal. 

 

The situation was odd: Roger wanted to run back into the bathroom, but in doing so, he would let Paul out of his sight, giving the older man room to run and shout to the world what he’d seen.

 

Roger hated how he could feel his stomach flip with the anger of being patronized whilst also being in a situation of inferiority. He wanted to punch him, but every small movement made his whole body quiver unsettlingly.

 

“What do you think I saw, Roger?” His tone wasn’t mocking, but the malice was there none the less. 

 

Again, Roger felt like a kid being found out for hiding porn under his bed, being asked questions he knew the answer to in an attempt to get the truth from his own mouth, in his own words.

 

The blonde didn’t manage to meet his assailant's eyes at that, opting to stare at the carpet ahead and pull his shaking arms around his body and chest, his breasts still obvious behind his shirt.

 

Embarrassment burned on his pink face, his legs like jelly where he stood.

 

It took him several moments of silents to compile anything coherent.

 

“Paul, please, it’s not what you-”

 

“Not what I think it is?” Paul raised his eyebrows, sighing sadly. “No, I’m sure it wasn’t. That would be crazy, wouldn’t it,  _ Roger _ ?”

 

The stress he put on the man's name forced the tears to fall down his cheeks. Paul, pouting mockingly, took another step forward - limiting the space between them again. 

 

Roger didn’t like that he kept the same distance from him, but somehow - in the heat of all this upset - managed to snake around behind him and shut the bathroom door, effectively blocking Roger’s hiding spot.

 

“I don’t…” He didn’t know where his brain was; he’d always figured if it was fight or flight he’d fight, but now that flying wasn’t an option, his only option seemed to evade him. He felt like a baby, barely coherent through sobs, “I don’t… Know what you…What you’re talking-”

 

“Oh? You don’t?” Paul took a step forward, the most sadistic smile Roger had ever seen plastered to his face. 

 

Roger backed up with every step that Prenter took towards him, but there was only so much room before his backside hit the edge of the desk Paul had been sitting on earlier.

 

The first physical contact was a finger below Roger’s chin, moving his head to meet Prenter’s dancing gaze.

 

_ He’s amused, _ Roger thought sickly _ , he’s having fun. _

 

“Paul, please, whatever you’re thinking-”

 

He didn’t have time to react before Paul’s hands were on him, yanking his shirt up.

 

The shock of being touched so violently overwhelmed him quickly, and his body froze for too long. His tits bounced slightly - although much smaller than average - as the shirt was moved, and a new wave of enjoyment seemed to cross Prenter’s face.

 

He tried to get him off, but now it seemed that he was too small and too frail -  _ not just because he was a small man, but because now he was a frail weak little woman like he’d always been, one who couldn’t fucking beat one guy and who was crying over nothing and who was physically weak and inferior and- _

 

He felt 15. He squirmed like a 15-year-old, small and weak.

 

“This is rich! You’re a freak!” Paul laughed, practically giddy, eyes grating over his body like a knife as he batted Roger’s hand’s away with little to no effort. “You’re some kind of- Some kind of tranny!” 

 

Eventually, Roger managed to land a good enough kick to Printer's middle that barely pushed him back a foot, and pulled his shirt back down as fast as he could, panting as he scrambled to try and escape Prenter.

 

“I didn’t take you for a cuntboy, Taylor.” Paul chuckled, grabbing the blonde’s tiny wrists and holding them tightly over his head, using his other hand to hold Roger’s face at eye-level with his. “I’ve never been with a woman. Let’s say this doesn’t count, eh?”

 

Paul’s lips were hot and wet and chapped against his own, and the older man managed to get his disgusting, slimy tongue between Roger’s teeth and into his mouth before he was kicked hard in the stomach.

 

Immediately, Roger was on his feet, scurrying like a wild animal to face Prenter’s back, trying to get himself more room. Tears fell freely on his red face, and he knew he looked like shit, but at this point…

 

_ Frustrated  _ was a good word to describe the mix of anger and resentment he felt at the current time, wiping his mouth and spitting on the carpet as he panted.

 

“ _Don’t fucking touch me_!” He could feel the way the screaming tore his throat and made his head pound. It felt like his chest was going to fucking explode, and there were tears brimming in his eyes as he screeched. “ _You fucking pervert! You fucking_ _son of a_ _bitch, you’re fucking psycho-!_ ”

 

Footsteps rumbled outside, and the door to their dressing room was jostled manically, still locked.

 

Paul only raised his hands and smiled in surrender, an open sign of his innocence.

Roger shook like a washing machine, the fight dying into a wail as his legs wobbled. Shallow breaths overtook him, and he felt his fingers entangle in his hair violently.

 

“Roger?!” Brian called frantically, obviously trying his damndest to open the locked door. “Roger what’s going on?! What’s happened?!”

 

He let a small, happy laugh go along with a relieved sob.

 

_ Brian’s there, Brian will save him, Brian will bring him into his arm and give Paul those dark eyes and he’ll back off and he won’t get hurt and no one will know, and- _

 

He opened his mouth to say something to his best friend - anything at all - to explain, to beg, to want, to cry, and just as he did-

 

His glassy gaze moved to Paul.

 

His voice died in his throat.

 

Roger felt red-hot, angry tears fall.

 

_ He’s smiling. _ He didn’t understand how the voice in his head also sounded lost _.That motherfucker is fucking smiling. _

 

Paul nodded his head towards the door. ‘Go on,’ his eyes taunted. ‘Tell him. See what happens.’

 

The fire of hope in Roger’s belly died.

 

“Do it.” Paul mouthed wordlessly, his eyes practically  _ begging  _ for Roger to give him a reason to spill what he saw.

 

Roger wiped his nose on his sleeve, breathing shakily as he tried to calm down a little – tried to stop himself from either sobbing again or throwing up.

 

“ _ Roger?! _ ” He hated how worried Brian sounded.

 

“Fi- Fine, I’m fine!” His voice sounded like shit, all wobbly and hoarse. “Just feel- feel a little sick is all.”

 

“Did you fall again?! Are you okay?!”

 

“N- No, I-” Roger looked at Paul, a hatred he’d never known burning in his guts. “Yeah- Yeah, I fell. Paul helped me up - I’m fine, really!”

 

Paul chose then to get up and made his way over to Roger while Brian said something in the background. The blood was too loud in his ears for him to hear what the guitarist was saying, and his feet felt too much like they were trapped in cement for him to move.

 

The room was so hot, and his skin burned so much that he felt faint for a moment, his vision going dark. When he regained his head, however, there was a warm and unwelcomed arm under his shirt - around his waist - and hot breath on his face. Paul’s gaze was centimeters from his own, their noses practically brushing.

 

“I’m taking good care of him, Brian. He’ll be back in a few, don’t worry.”

 

Brimi grumbled something outside the door, obviously upset with Paul’s answer, but Roger heard his footsteps retreat before he could say anything else.

 

“I don’t want you to try that shit again.”

 

Roger whimpers at the implications of a ‘next time’. His arms moved to push Prenter away, but this time, the older man was ready, and merely held the drummer so close to him that he had no room to squirm.

 

A new feeling - not hate or hope - swallowed him whole, and he found suddenly that his head was resting on Paul’s shoulder. He wasn’t fighting, he wasn’t crying.

 

“Paul... Please...” His voice was quiet, and, although he couldn’t see it, he knew Paul was smiling. “Don’t tell them, please, please God, don’t tell them,  _ please _ !” 

 

His heart hammered against his ribs as Paul contemplated.

 

“What’ll you give me?”

 

Terrified eyes met a sickly seductive black gaze as Roger looked up, and both of Paul’s large hands were suddenly on Roger’s hips, rocking the two of them slightly.

 

He let out a broken breath. “…W-What…?”

 

“What’ll you give me,” He bit his lip as he tucked a stray piece of hair behind Roger’s ear. “So that I don’t tell? So that I don’t run to the presses and have you kicked from the band and have the boys lose their jobs because of you, eh? You know how this could affect them; a lie like this? Women don’t get far in this industry, and mistakes like you? Get even less.” 

 

“I’m not a woman,” Roger took a shaky breath, scrunching his eyes closed as one of the hands on his hips moved to swipe a thumb over the soft skin of his breast under the shirt.

 

Paul hummed uninterestedly.

 

He swallowed what felt like a full apple in his throat as hot tears fell onto his cheeks once again.

 

“So? What’s it gonna be?”

 

“Anything.” His voice was quiet, and he couldn’t look Paul in the eye.

 

“Anything?” Paul seemed surprised. He bit his lip and smiled, eyes focusing on anything but Rogers' face. “Mmmm, I like that. I like that  _ very  _ much...”

 

A soft kiss was placed on Rogers' lips, and his hands left Roger’s body.

 

He didn’t even register that Paul had gone until he heard the door close.

 

Roger rushed to the bathroom to throw up a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come check me out on tumblr @scrabblesense


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